


Fine Art of Conversation

by isidore13



Category: NSYNC
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isidore13/pseuds/isidore13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Intense conversation is overrated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Art of Conversation

He was on the side of the stage when it happened.

He had no idea what was going on, of course, until the screams started. He looked out at where the audience would be later that night, and the crew was pointing up above his head.

He knew he would never forget the sight of the entire rack of Fresnell lights coming down toward him.

He would also never forget them stopping, hovering in mid air, three feet above his head. He stared at it, unmoving, the only person onstage.

A stunned silence fell over the crew, and a strained voice called, “Move! I can’t hold it much longer!” and then JC had jumped onstage to push him off, spraining JC’s ankle.

He came away unharmed.

The woman who’d cried out for him to move had fainted dead away as soon as everyone was out of danger. The Fresnell rack had landed with a crash, destroying their lights and causing them to postpone shows.

Then Anthony had to deal with the repercussions. He could not fire the woman, as he had no proof beyond the hallucinations of the entire crew. No one really believed she had held it with her mind. There was some discussion as to whether she was a saboteur, looking for attention, but when Anthony checked the wires and riggings, it was clear that the occurrence was an accident.

So the crew avoided her. Anthony told her they were terribly, terribly grateful to her for saving his life, but he wondered if she wouldn’t mind driving, alone, one of the vans that held the boy’s toys for the rest of the tour? and she had smiled tightly. “Of course I don’t mind.”

 _Pariah her whole life_ , he’d heard her mumble when she walked away, her mouth in a fake, practiced grimace.

So it was not a surprise to him when he found her shaking and crying in the Quiet Room long after it was supposed to be completely set up.

She scrambled up as the door opened, looking frantically at her watch. “Oh my God, I’m so so so so so sorry. I know I’m supposed to leave right after I’ve set it up please don’t fire me I’ll go right now don’t fire me please please please—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” he said. “It’s okay, just go now.”

She nodded and sprinted past him out of the room. “Sosososososo sorry!” he heard her yell as she ran down the hall.

It never happened again, but that was not unexpected. She was used to being a pariah, so she probably cried over it very rarely.

The thing she clearly wasn’t used to was him seeking her out.

Well, she HAD saved his life.

He grinned at her when he placed himself in the front seat of the van that held their Quiet Room supplies.

She looked at him strangely, but said nothing, just started the car.

In fact, neither of them spoke until an hour later, on the highway toward Dallas, when she said, “Lonnie know ‘bout this?”

“Yes,” he said, equally laconic.

She nodded.

They didn’t speak the rest of the way there.

It was the same the next day, and the next trip, and so on. He rode with her, despite the better accommodations of the bus.

When he joined her in her hotel room one night, she was only mildly surprised.

They spoke very rarely.

Being near her was, strangely, enough.

It took a long time before he got up the nerve to touch her, almost three months, and even then she scared him by jumping in shock.

It took him another week to touch her again. They were driving on I10 and he didn’t say anything, just took her hand in his and smiled when she turned to look at him for a moment, shocked.

He guessed that once most people had seen her ‘performance’ they didn’t want to touch her.

Her hand had rested limply in his, not moving at all the rest of the trip, until it was stuck with sweat to the seat and she refused to open her hand and intertwine their fingers. Her eyes were wide the entire way to the next venue.

The next day was the same, and the day after that.

The third day they were staying overnight and he hugged her when he left her hotel room for the night.

She was stiff inside the circle of his arms.

He pulled away from her and smiled, then went back to his room.

She let their fingers intertwine the next day, and he could see tears in her eyes, but they never fell.

The next time they stayed overnight, he went down to her room and they sat on her bed watching a movie like they always did.

He pulled her against him. She sat stiffly next to him, then sighed and let her muscles relax.

Talking was overrated, anyway.

This was how you got to know somebody.

Three weeks later, he kissed her very gently. She’d stopped stiffening when he touched her a week prior, and he decided to take a chance.

She started to brace again after that, for a whole week.

He still hugged and held and kissed her every night, not saying a word.

She stopped bracing one night and tentatively kissed him back.

He stayed over that night, sleeping with her comfortably in his arms.

He woke up the next morning to find her crying, silently, always silently. When she realized he was awake, she did speak, finally. “I’ve never saved anyone like you before,” she whispered through her tears, then her body seized in silent sobs.

He pulled her hard against him, murmuring soothingly into her hair.

That day he drove while she slept in the passenger seat.

She waited for him during the show that night. As soon as he was in the car, she was going, heading for the highway.

“Bathroom,” he said softly two hours later and she glanced at the side of the road, looking for signs for a rest stop. Once she found one, she pulled in and unbuckled her seatbelt, and both of them went into the roadway bathrooms.

He was waiting for her when she came out. She didn’t even have a chance to put on her seatbelt before he’d pulled her into his lap to kiss her with some force this time.

She made a little shocked squeal against his mouth, pushing lightly at his chest and he let her go.

She blushed and moved off his lap, buckling herself in.

Sheepishly he mumbled, “Sorry.”

She nodded, then turned her head toward him and smiled shyly. “‘Sfine,” she said succinctly.

The engine turned over and they were back on the road.

He went to her hotel room that night again, but did not touch her. Didn’t want to push her any further than he had already.

She leaned against him for half an hour, then pulled his arm around her.

He took that as permission.

But he didn’t kiss her that night.

She greeted him with a kiss the next day. She was still a little shy, a little tentative.

But he took that as permission also.

He kissed her, long and deep, that night, liking the feel of her arms around his neck, her lips moving under his, her skin like cream under his exploring hands.

He positively reveled in the little sounds he made her make. Or was it he making them? Maybe it was both of them. It didn’t matter. He liked making the silent woman moan.

They were both breathing hard when he broke the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers. “We have to stop, or we won’t stop,” he said simply, and she nodded.

He resisted to urge to kiss her goodbye and simply walked out of the room.

She seemed to understand the next day, so he didn’t feel too badly about it.

It continued that way until the end of the tour.

She lived in Santa Fe.

She thought it was goodbye.

She was shocked when he showed up at her door a month later.

He didn’t say anything, just smiled at her and brushed past her into her apartment.

He stayed for a month.

They said six words to each other.

“Where is the bathroom?” he asked that first day.

“Over there,” she gestured.

She saw him naked.

He was unashamed.

She was humiliated.

Then he saw her naked.

He was unbelievably aroused.

She was beyond humiliated.

She got over it.

After the month was over, he went back home.

He flew her out the next week to spend the month with him.

They had a conversation for the first time.

“Do you like Monty Python?” she asked.

“What?”

“I want to go rent a movie. Do you like Monty Python? I’m in the mood for dry humor.”

He smiled. “I like Monty Python.”

“What else do you want to rent?”

“Some action movie, or another comedy.”

She grinned up at him. “Got money?”

He smiled. “You’re not paying?”

She snorted. “Who’s the multi-millionaire between us?”

He laughed and gave her a fifty.

She crawled into his bed naked that night.

He pulled off his underwear.

They didn’t do anything but sleep.

It was all right.

She whimpered beneath him the next day, smiling.

He tickled her relentlessly as she writhed, grinning insanely, and the situation quickly escalated into a make-out session that involved some heavy petting.

Very heavy petting.

He came.

She came.

It was very nice.

They didn’t do anything but sleep that night.

She straddled his lap the next day and hugged him tightly. “Thank you for being different than the others,” she said quietly into his ear. “No one has ever accepted me, until you.”

He smiled at her and put his hands on her hips when she leaned back, then leaned forward to kiss her.

They didn’t sleep that night.

She screamed and swore and begged.

He liked making her noisy.

He liked that she made him noisy.

She came very hard.

He came harder.

It was earth-shattering.

They were hovering a foot above the bed.

With the last of her energy, she concentrated and set them gently down on top of the covers.

She was breathing hard. He was panting.

They watched the sun rise.

They fell asleep, the air set to a low temperature so they could snuggle comfortably against one another under the covers.

He didn’t mind waking up that afternoon.

She was noisy again.

He was noisier than her this time.

They had oral sex.

It was mind-splintering.

He loved her.

He played with her hair as they lay on his couch, wondering idly if she felt anything but lust for him.

“I think I might love you,” he ventured softly.

“Yeah?” she said.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I think I might love you,” she whispered back.

He smiled and hugged her.

“What do we do now?” she asked.

He shrugged. “We’ll figure something out,” he said confidently.

She decided he was probably right.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this at the tail-end of my N Sync affection. This is easily my best work at the time, even as awful as it is.


End file.
